I Love College
by The Smart Cookie
Summary: Series of unconnected one-shots/short stories detailing Holmes' college life with his then best and only friend, Victor Trevor. Not necessarily cases. Non-slash. #1 - Drunk. # 2 - Name-calling.
1. Content of the Cavalier's Suitcase

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Sherlock Holmes or anything affiliated with said series.

Well, alright. So my sister was driving me to work a while back, and that song "I Love College" by Asher Roth came on the radio. Now, I never have and never will be a fan of rap, but I will say that the lyrics got some gears turning in this strange little head o'mine and before I knew it, the idea for this story was born. Because come on, with friends like Victor Trevor, how could Holmes have _not_ had any memorable (if unrepeatable) experiences during his university days? This will probably end up becoming a series of disjointed one-shots.

Rated T for some crude language and alcohol references.

_"If drinking is interfering with your work, you're probably a heavy drinker. If work is interfering with your drinking, you're probably in college." —author unknown_

* * *

In my defense, I have done it only once and I would never dream of doing it again. I could certainly blame it on the individuals involved; I could say it was a moment of weakness or a lapse in judgment. However, I take full blame and responsibility for no one save myself, and so I readily say with any and all shame I owe that it was nothing but pure stupidity. Yes, I, Sherlock Holmes, was _drunk_.

It was on a baking evening in June, the year 1874. I was on my way over to Victor Trevor's room to provide him with some much-needed assistance with trigonometry. Trevor, as a rule, always had a terrible time with geometry. I was never quite able to ascertain exactly why—he had always done perfectly well in every other form of mathematics, occasionally even besting _me_ by a point or two on our exams. Ask him to find the area of a triangle, though, and you might just find yourself explaining which of the three sides is the base. (Unfortunately, he never quite came to fully appreciate the irony in this, either; I found it to be very droll.)

I cursed as I ascended the stairwell in the suffocating building. Trevor's room was so conveniently located on the third floor, and every step I climbed seemed to carry me closer and closer to some invisible furnace that was turning the atmosphere into that of an oven. By the time I reached Trevor's door, I was dabbing at my moist and streaming forehead with my handkerchief; Trevor seemed to be in a similar state when he opened the door.

"You look like you've been swimming, Holmes," was his tolerant and confoundedly good-humored greeting.

"I wish I had been," I replied, moving past him and into the room, which, despite the open window, was not a single degree cooler than the hall.

"Where's that hell-hound of yours?"

I voiced the questions seconds before realizing that, to my abject horror, the animal was curled up upon Trevor's comforter, its chest rising and falling rhythmically with a low, grunting snore accompanying each breath.

"_Percy_ is sound asleep as you can see."

"You let the thing on your bed!?"

"Percy is a 'he,' not an 'it,' Holmes, and furthermore, yes."

"That dog is a spoiled child, Trevor."

"He's a very fortunate canine, that he is," Trevor said fondly, taking a seat beside the mutt. Aside from a brief flick of the ears, it did not even stir as Trevor scratched it affectionately on the head.

"I got him five years ago, when I was just fifteen. I was staying in Sussex for a week with my father, and a bitch on one of the neighboring farms had puppies. Can you believe that heartless planter was actually going to _drown_ the whole litter? He was only too happy to let me take one of them off his hands, though Father was not exactly thrilled."

"Well..."

My bitter tone faltered despite myself. Of course, with Trevor's financial status, if ever in his life he had wanted a dog, he had only to name the size, breed, and color to have it handed to him on a silver chain. (And it could have been a much finer one, as well, than the specimen that lay soundly asleep at his side.) But, no, he'd actually gone out of his way to adopt the horrid thing for the sole purpose of rescuing it?

"People actually _do_ that?"

"Indeed. Horrible. Should be against the law," he muttered angrily, running a hand along the length of the animal and more than likely contemplating the fate of his poor beloved pet had he not been there. Indeed, waking up to find five or six hungry puppies living in your yard no doubt would be an inconvenience, but even I, my antipathy towards the beasts notwithstanding, could think of several exponentially more humane ways to deal with the problem.

"Shall we get to work?"

"Let's," he replied hastily, remembering himself. He got up and dragged the fairly small, cluttered table that acted as a desk over to the bed, which served as his seat. I grabbed the only chair and sat down on the other side.

"Don't mind Anderson's things, just shove them off to the side."

I shot a questioning glance at Trevor. It was very unlike him to be so inconsiderate of another's belongings.

"I know," he acknowledged my confusion with an easy shrug, "but Anderson is not exactly respectful towards _my_ possessions, either. Last night I came in only to find five of my textbooks lying in a disarrayed heap on the floor as if he'd just swept an arm across the table without caring _where_ they landed."

"Did you have words with him?" I knotted my brows, marveling at the obscene nerve of this brute to take advantage of my friend's almost painfully tolerant nature in such a way.

"As of yet, no. I do wish to avoid any confrontations, so I had hoped I could just send him a message simply by..." he left the sentence open, flushing a little.

"Returning the favor? Quite right. Probably the most effective course of action."

No sooner than I had finished the sentence, I raised my own arm to swipe the odd assortment of books and papers off the desk. Most of the heavy volumes fell unceremoniously to the ground with a heavy thud, but I had smacked a few of the lighter ones with enough force to send them sailing into the wall with a resounding _thwack_. This, in addition to the small tornado of paper that was in the process of gracefully drifting its way to the floor, left me feeling most satisfied that Trevor's boorish flatmate would soon be getting what he so rightfully deserved.

"Holmes!" Trevor cried, aghast, cupping a hand over his mouth.

"It was your idea, Trevor! If the imbecile wants to treat your personal property with such disregard, then this is what he'll get in return!"

"Oh..." Trevor practically whimpered, fidgeting.

"I do hope you didn't damage anything of his, though."

"Oh, for the love of heaven, Victor! Must you really be so bloody tender? _He's_ the one who is acting out of order, not you."

"Alright, alright! Can we... Can we just start the math now and get it over with, please?"

"Indeed."

Taking one last apprehensive glance at the disheveled mound of books on the floor, he rolled his eyes and reached for some unseen object behind him. When his face betrayed obvious confusion only a moment later, however, I got the indication that whatever item he had been searching for was not there. He reeled around, eyes scanning over the bed frantically.

"I swear," he murmured, "I put it right... Oh, Percy. You silly boy."

I was on the verge of asking Trevor what the deuce he'd meant by that, but before I had the chance to speak, he'd slipped a hand just under the belly of the snoring beast and began to pull slowly out from underneath it what very soon appeared to be a book—his _maths_ book.

It was my turn to roll my eyes in disgust as Trevor fought and lost the battle not to dissolve into a chuckle.

"Troublemaker," I muttered as he brushed a few stray stands of white fur from the cover.

"He's got a sense of humor."

"Yes, just like the time he lashed onto my foot. I'm sure he found that to be very hysterical, indeed."

"Oh, would you come off it? Here," he said, handing the volume out to me. I was careful to grab onto it with only two fingers and dropped it onto the table before disdainfully flicking it open.

"Honestly, Holmes..."

"I do not wish to end up with fleas!"

"This dog has never had _fleas_ in his life."

"Well, it is still an animal, nonetheless."

"Exactly. That's why I like him so much."

I decided to ignore this last statement completely until a later date, for Trevor had made such a regular habit out of bewildering me with odd remarks that I had simply learned how to ignore it. After flipping the book open to the correct chapter and page, I was in the middle of reading aloud the definition of "secant" when I was interrupted by a rather insolent giggle.

"In general, secant lines intersect a circle at two... And just _what_ is so funny, Victor?"

"Did you _really_ refer to me as 'tender' just five minutes ago?"

"Yes. Too much so for your own good, in fact. May we now continue?"

"Oh, good Lord, Holmes. You have not seen me when I'm ill-humor as of yet."

"Likewise, Trevor, likewise. May I continue reading?"

"Fire away."

* * *

"Alright, let's try this again, Victor. ABC is a right triangle. We are given that one angle of triangle ABC is thirty-six degrees and the radius of the circle is ten. We may assume that all lines that appear to be tangent are tangent. Using this information, we must find both sides and the hypotenuse of ABC."

"So, we start off by halving the thirty-six degrees to get a pair of angles measuring eighteen degrees each... Which constitutes the third angles for these two additional right triangles we produce by drawing in two more radii here."

"Good. Keep going."

"So, now we take the... _sine_ of angle C?"

"No."

"Cosine?"

"You're guessing again, Victor. Use your reason!"

"Sorry, sorry! So it must be tangent, then?"

"Yes, but the tangent of _what_?"

"Angle C."

"Incorrect."

"Angle..."

"I'm _not_ telling you."

"I know that! Just give me a second to _think_, will you!"

Trevor propped both elbows on the table and rested his forehead on clenched fists, staring intensely at the problem. A single bead of sweat pooled on his sopping, glistening forehead and dripped onto the page. With an exasperated growl, he bolted upright in the chair and slammed one palm down on the table furiously.

"Assaulting the table will do nothing to accomplish solving this problem nor dispelling the heat."

He said nothing, but flashed savage eyes at me for just a moment as he reached into his coat pocket, which was now on the floor, and fished around for a handkerchief. Due to the overwhelming temperature of the room, we had both deemed it fit to remove our outermost garments and were down to our waistcoats.

"Take the sine of eighteen degrees," he declared distractedly, mopping his head.

"What did I _just_ tell you, Victor?"

"You mean about the futility of brutalizing the desk?"

"That is _not_ what I mean and you know it."

"Take the... the tangent of eighteen degrees."

"Why?"

"It's cosine, then?"

"I didn't say you were wrong, I'm asking you to explain why the solution could only be tangent."

"Oh, for the love of... It just _is_! What further explanation do you need?"

"We are taking the tangent of eighteen degrees, are we not?"

"Yes, I do believe we've established that."

"Besides our given angle measure, what two additional elements do we need in order to solve for tangent?"

"The... The opposite side of the triangle and the hypotenuse."

"Which are?"

"Ten and... Unknown."

"Alright. Tell me the equation."

"The tangent of eighteen degrees is equal to... is equal to..."

"Forget the problem for a moment. What is the formula for tangent?"

"Er... Adjacent over opposite?"

"Some Old Horse Caught A Horse..." *

"Taking Oats Away. Opposite over adjacent, then."

"Right. Now tell me the equation for the tangent of eighteen degrees."

"Ten over the hypotenuse."

"Now rearrange it and solve."

"The hypotenuse is equal to ten divided by the tangent of eighteen degrees."

"Precisely."

Trevor blinked.

"What?"

"I said 'precisely.' You have only to solve the equation, which I believe you already know how to do."

"Oh."

Several more thunderstruck blinks accompanied a small but satisfied ghost of a smile.

"Well, I'm far from being an expert, but I begin to vaguely understand where this is all coming from."

"I am glad you think so Victor, for there are still seven individual steps remaining to complete this problem."

The tiny trace of joy that had graced his expression just seconds beforehand whithered without further delay.

"Oh—"

At this point, he affirmed his displeasure with a certain profanity which I dare not repeat here. It was several moments before I could even regain my composure enough to breathe again.

"Pardon the expression," he waved off my astonishment with such indifference that I had to wonder whether or not such language was a regular part of his vocabulary.

"Fine. Let's... Let's just move on."

* * *

"And for the final step, what is the length of the hypotenuse?"

"Fifty point four inches."

"Correct."

Upon reaching this conclusion, we both breathed a heavy sigh of relief, Trevor with an exhausted "whew!"

"If at all possible, could we take a break for now, Victor?"

"I think we can take a break _forever_, Holmes."

"You do realize that we only covered half of the first section of the chapter?"

"I know. I'll just have to fail tomorrow, that's all. Seems I just wasted two and a half hours of your time, Holmes. Sorry."

I dug around in my own coat pocket for my watch. Ten-thirty.

"S'fine," I assured him breathlessly, leaning back and stretching my legs out rather indecently. Even I had to say, I was spent.

"Move over, boy. Your master's rather fatigued himself," Trevor addressed the dog as if he'd actually make it appreciate why he felt the need to gently but firmly scoot the jaded beast out of its comfortable spot so he could recline himself.

"Holmes," he said, breaking out into a fit of snickering.

"What?"

"I do believe that geometry is going to be the ruination of our friendship," he declared, the snickering giving way to a keen peal of laughter.

"I have no objections to assisting you, Victor, but you must realize that I am perhaps the least patient man on the face of the planet—a trait which is not on kindly terms with tutoring."

"Or the most geometrically challenged man on the face of the planet."

"That, too."

Trevor dropped listlessly onto the bed, inhaling deeply and sighing. I was not feeling so vigorous myself, of course, but Trevor was far and away worse off than I. His entire face had already taken on the hue of a steamed lobster and, much to his chagrin and my amusement, his now-saturated collar had refused to stay in place over the course of the evening and was now splayed open rather widely, never again to conform to the shape of the wearer's neck.

"Where is this roommate of yours, anyway, Victor? The hour is rather late to be wandering about with any good intentions."

"I have no clue. One night last month he came in at three in the morning, and none too quietly, I might add."

"Buffoon."

"Well... I am not so certain."

"Eh? What ever do you mean? The fellow sounds ghastly enough to put up with to me."

"I know, I know, but he is so... solemn. Brooding."

"Has it occurred to you that you've just aptly described the man sitting across from you?"

"_You_ do not stare blankly at me as though I'm not here! _You_ are pensive. _This_ man is... vacant, and most eerily so."

"Well, it hardly matters. His issues are not your issues, and if he cannot bring himself to realize this, then he is even more boorish than your description of him leads me to believe."

"But it's not as though we've ever had occasion to quarrel. No, I've never argued with the man once. It's more like... He simply refuses to acknowledge the fact that I exist. It is most unnerving, to be quite honest. I worry for him sometimes."

"Didn't I tell you you're too softhearted for your own good?"

"And you're the devil's advocate!"

I only gave a low guffaw as I continued to fan myself with some random paper of Anderson's I had salvaged from the floor.

"Why is it so damned hot in here?" Trevor muttered rhetorically, shutting his eyes for a moment.

"It would probably have something to do with the fact that it is so damned hot _outside_."

Quite spontaneously and with a remarkable burst of energy, Trevor sprung from the bed and immediately dropped stomach-down onto the floor with such speed that at first I thought he had fainted or suffered a heatstroke. That is, until he began to rummage around for something underneath the bed.

"Victor? What the devil are you doing?"

"Ah, found it!"

I could only watch, dumbfounded, as Trevor emerged from the ground with nothing more than a simple suitcase in his arms.

"I opted to stow this in an at least semi-hidden location when I realized how far-gone Anderson was," he informed me, unclasping the fasteners on the satchel.

"Why?" I could not help but question somewhat nervously. To repeat and reinforce one exhilarating yet congruently disconcerting characteristic of my friend, Victor Trevor had made a practice out of mystifying me on a fairly regular basis. For all I knew, he could pull out a stick of dynamite from that case just as easily as he could a toothbrush.

But no, it was neither of the above-mentioned items. What he did withdraw from the trunk, however, was no less stunning.

"Victor...? _You_?"

"Not as holy as you thought, eh?"

"But... Is that even allowed on campus?"

"Probably not."

As many would be able to conclude from this conversation, the content of this cavalier's suitcase was, in fact, a bottle. A very fine-looking and aesthetic bottle, actually, of gin.

"Where did you get that?"

"Well," he chuckled, "you should have seen me the day before I left home. I was positively giddy at the prospect of no longer living under anybody's thumb. I just grabbed this before leaving. I'm not really sure why, actually. Call it an impulsive move."

"Impulsive, I should say!"

And it was true, although I could seamlessly relate to Trevor's longing for freedom. Words cannot adequately describe my relief (I dare say _happiness_) upon stepping out of that house for the last time in order to commence constructing the foundation of my own life. _This_ was the time for determining one's role within the world. _This_ was the time to cease being molded and shaped like so much clay. _This_ was the time to establish one's sense of self and to compose the map for the duration of one's existence. This was liberation; this was the meaning of destiny—and for me, this was, in and of itself, monumental.

"Do you want the jigger or the bottle?"

"_What?_"

"Well, I could only find one whiskey glass, so we'll just have to improvise."

And _this_ was just plain absurd, so I suppose it is just as well that I terminate the poetry before I humiliate myself even further. In actuality, I was contemplating the bottle with no small amount of skepticism... and curiosity. I had had meager experience with alcohol, at most, up to that point. In fact, to be most embarrassingly blatant, one of the last times I could recall drinking was when I had contracted a case of the measles at twelve. My parents, or my mother, at least, seemed to be under the impression that blackberry brandy did much to fortify the immune system. She administered nips of it to my brother and I like medicine whenever we were ill or when sickness was going around—and we enjoyed it as much as we did any other medicine at our early age. Of course, very few people relish the taste of liquor upon first trying it; it is an acquired taste that grows over time. I began to understand as much in my early teens, when I realized the capabilities of alcohol's intoxicating properties. I came to welcome and even anticipate these doses.

However, in no way do I wish to imply that I received the stuff on a regular basis. On the contrary, these measures were quite sparse, and any opportunities to otherwise happen upon booze were, likewise, few and far between.

"What is this stuff, anyway?"

"London dry."

I leaned forward on the table and grabbed the neck of the bottle, turning it so I could read the label.

"Eighty-three proof spirit... Aged forty-four years!? And you're sharing this with _me_, Victor?" *

"What, you think I'm going to drink alone?"

"But what if your roommate comes back?"

"Didn't I tell you the fellow doesn't even notice that I exist? I severely doubt he'll care one bit. Or, if he does, he can have some, too. It might even coax him to talk, for once. That is, _if_ he comes back."

I was trying to think of any and all possible worst-case scenarios that might ensue if we were to be discovered. _Well, _I thought,_ I most definitely do _not_ plan on becoming rip-roaring drunk. It as not as though we'll be making any more noise than we usually would, anyway. And seeing as where this other fellow is evidently nothing to worry about..._

"So, what'll it be, then?"

"I'll take the whiskey glass, I suppose," I concluded, so that I would be able to know unmistakably exactly how much I was imbibing.

_Foolproof_.

"As ever, the picturesque archetype of society," he teased me, uncorking the decanter without a trace of difficulty and pouring me the first round. My impulse to grab the glass and drain it at once failed most uncannily to register in my arm, and I sat there dumbly for a moment regarding the spirit with some apprehension.

"What shall we toast to?" Trevor asked wistfully, tapping his chin. An odd question to put forward when we were both so clearly just waiting to pounce on the stuff, in my opinion, but I raised the glass on a whim of mischievousness.

"Pythagoras."

"Splendid idea!" Trevor readily responded with far too much enthusiasm, baffling me to no end as he brought the decanter to meet my drink.

"May he burn in the realm of Satan for the rest of eternity," he announced zealously, clinking the rather cumbrous bottle against my tiny glass before I could even get the chance to snigger at how cruelly he had twisted my words. We certainly must have painted a most questionable picture, that. My earlier misgivings virtually vanished, I brought the rim of the drink to my lips and downed the spirit rather more quickly than was probably wise. I had rather foolishly been under-prepared for the burn that invariably accompanies the stuff's trip down the esophagus, and the sensation sent me into a mild coughing fit that took me a moment to recover from.

"Too hard for you?" Trevor smirked at me, raising an eyebrow mockingly. Apparently, it had gone down easily enough for him.

"Just went down the wrong way, that's all."

"I'm sure."

My only response was to brashly slam the whiskey glass down on the table, beckoning him to an opportunity to try saying that again. I believe he understood my gist as he rather sportively poured me the second shot. I downed it no more slowly than I did the first, but this one turned out to be much less painful and very smooth. I could actually perceive the flavor of the liquor this time. Trevor took another swill of the stuff to match my two.

"This is rather good, actually," I could not help but comment.

"Did you think I was going to serve you poison?"

"What's this flavored with?"

"Juniper, coriander, and angelica. More?"

"Er... Not just now, thank you."

Oh, but I _wanted_ more, though. I was already beginning to feel just mildly relaxed, although the warming nature of the drink had done nothing to reduce my already soaring body temperature. It is truly quite astonishing, is it not, just how much damage such a little amount of the stuff can do. Not to mention the fact that it was going into an empty stomach. If only I'd known then what I know now...

Nevertheless, I didn't, to put it punctually. Actually, come to think of it, I haven't the faintest idea _what_ I was thinking (if I was at all) when I decided that, being significantly larger in frame than most fellows my age, I could tolerate a fairly liberal amount of the stuff. (Did I mention that I weigh less than thirteen stone?)

Regardless, on the grounds of politeness and whatever shreds of self-control were holding me back at that point, I refused another helping of the drink... Until ten minutes later, (surely it was longer than ten minutes?), only when it was offered. As I toppled the third spirit, though, I perceived something for the first time that had gone unnoticed by me before. As I have already said, the drink had started to make me feel rather hotter than I already was. However, the stinging sensation in my throat had left it sensitive to the relative coolness of the air—much like the abating effect of perspiration evaporating on skin. This was considerably relieving in the incinerating heat of the room, and of course only served to fuel my fondness for the stuff.

It was about this time, as well, that my barriers began to slowly crumble like a wall of sand against the rising tide.

_Well, don't just sit here staring like a recluse, say something!_

As the thought passed absently through my distracted mind, I could not help but grin at the scene that lay before me.

"Where does it come from, Victor?"

"Where does what come from?"

He posed the question just seconds before belting his third drink. Even in retrospect, it was certainly something to behold, that—watching this finely-dressed, perfectly complacent mess of a gentleman slinging back straight gin from the bottle with his ankles crossed on the table.

"This... This indecorous _swagger_ of yours," I gasped, for I was outright _laughing_ by this point.

He simply gave an apathetic shrug, pulling a most nonchalant expression at me. Oh, yes, his tethers were beginning to loosen as well, but even still, he was not so affected as I (yet.) He was, after all, a football player, and while not altogether as brawny as his teammates, he still had considerable mass on me.

"Don't know. Maybe it runs in the family or something."

_Hmm, whether or not certain personality traits can be innately passed from parent to offspring? It would make a fascinating monograph study..._

"No, on second thought, that's bosh. I'm just a profane brute by nature."

The wall cracked and buckled as we sat there roaring. I thought I actually heard it breach, until I realized that the poor fellow who resided in the room adjacent to us was very forcefully pounding on the _real_ wall.

"Keep it down!" someone demanded most vehemently.

"Sorry!" Trevor instantly responded.

_Keep it down? Oh, go to hell. Five past eleven isn't that bloomin' late, anyhow._

Three had been the gateway. Four was the point of no return. The wall collapsed.

* * *

"You're slipping, Victor!"

"_Damn!_"

"_Yes!_ Ha ha!"

I slammed my free fist down on the table in celebration. (When I say "free," I refer to the arm that had not been engaged in the arm-wrestling match from which I had just emerged victorious.)

"My God, Holmes! Even with your left you're a heavyweight!"

"I know, I know," I grinned, grabbing hold of the sixth shot Trevor had just poured for me after taking another drink himself. Pulling it away from his lips, he studied the bottle with a most comical expression of perplexity. He squinted and held the bottle closer to his face first, then moved it further away.

"Huh. I can't read the writing on this anymore," he said casually, placing the bottle back down on the table, "which is a shame, because now I suppose I shall have to get spectacles. What do you think?"

He connected his index fingers with his thumbs and then placed them over each respective eye, and in my impaired state all I could do was tap my chin thoughtfully and scrutinize him, pondering how spectacles, indeed, would probably ruin his appearance.

What happened next, (or, more accurately, what I proceeded to do next), is something that I cringe and shutter about to this day.

"Ohhh, Victor," I slurred, positively grinning, "if you think _that's_ bad, you never met my father!"

Yes, I actually said it. Out loud. (Has anybody fainted yet?) In answer for my nigh-on psychotic actions, I can only say that... Well, I simply did not think it _could _happen! Perhaps the reason I so longed for the stuff in the first place was that its effects reminded me so greatly of that of the cocaine. At first, the reaction had almost been an exact parallel—a slight rise in temperature, the feeling of tranquility, and an overall sense of euphoria. By the time I realized how much I was chattering on, however, it was far too late to simply stop. I was not thinking for myself anymore; the gin was doing it for me. And _it_ did not plan on releasing me anytime soon.

It was so foolishly naïve of me, really, not to figure I would wind up divulging exponentially more than I ever intended to while locked in the stuff's grip in the first place. The information I was now spitting out for all the world to hear was (and still is) a subject matter buried so deeply within me that I could not even fathom a drug powerful enough drug to make it surface. Burn me, whip me, stretch me on the rack 'till my legs break, and you would never hear one word of what I was presently telling this man whom I'd known only four months. But give me a few nips of gin and all hell breaks loose, apparently! It simply is not fair for God to have created a breed with such strength of willpower and then outfit them with brains that can be so easily scrambled by nothing more than a few drops of poison!

"Now _he_ wore these big metal-rimmed glasses, thick... thick as windowpanes! Blind as a bat without them."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes!" I continued on merrily, pausing to gulp the drink.

"Couldn't even tell my brother and I apart when he wasn't wearing his spectacles!"

Another explosion of laughter followed. Who cared if I was candidly disclosing intimate details of my personal history? We were both having a good time, were we not? Was that not all that mattered?

"One more?"

"Just one more," I agreed, holding my glass out. Trevor tilted the bottle to pour me drink number seven, but hesitated, a most irked expression crossing his face.

"Quit _moving _it."

"I'm not!"

Although he was probably seeing doubles by then, anyway.

"_You're_ drunk, Holmes. You don't even realize you're moving it!"

"I am _not _drunk!"

It was certainly a laughable denial, although I was more far more entertained than miffed by his accusation.

_Me! Drunk! The very idea of it!_

All things considered, however, I was fractionally correct about one thing, for I was indeed _not _drunk—I was smashed.

"You definitely are. You're three sheets to the wind, Holmsey," he chimed, seeming to figure out which one of my stationary glasses was actually there and pouring me one more round.

"You're one to talk, Victor. You're the one with the bottle! A _gentleman _exercises moderation," I somehow found the audacity to chide him, draining my seventh and last drink.

"Is that why you never quite made the ranks?"

"No. I just have no money."

At this, Trevor threw his head back in one of those uncanny, hysterical, near-silent laughs, water welling up in his eyes. To look at him, one would think I'd just said the funniest thing he'd ever heard, though I spoke with complete honesty.

"My dear friend, you really must listen to yourself sometime," he said, wiping the tears of hilarity from his face, as if finding the fact that somebody could possibly have less wealth than him utterly preposterous.

"What's going on in here?"

An entirely new voice had barged into the room, and I reeled to find a rather short, irate-looking chap standing just inside the doorway.

"Oh. Good evening, Anderson. Would you care to join us?" Trevor offered most serenely. Anderson, for apparently _this _less-than-impressive figure was the neurotic Trevor had warned me about, was not in the slightest bit receptive.

"And who the hell is _this_!?"

"Hallo," I responded sanguinely with a small wave, for _nothing _could have spoiled my mood at that point.

"This is a good friend of mine, Herlock Sholmes. Or... Yes, that's it. Do have a seat."

"My _books_! Trevor. Get him _out_. Now."

"_An_-derson, do stop being a prude. There's plenty of room for-HIC!"

In a spasm so violent he slammed the back of his head against the wall, Trevor let out a hiccough that sent us both into yet another laughing fit. Anderson's face was beginning to glow crimson, and not from the heat.

"That's _enough_! You—whatever your name is, _leave_."

"I'm quite comfortable where I am, thank you," I replied, genuinely failing to detect the hostility in his voice. As far as I was concerned, all was right with the world and everyone in it.

"You know, Anderson," Trevor more or less slurred, albeit taking on a serious tone, "I've put up with you and your whining for six. Whole. Months. And did you ever once even _deign _to ask me how I was doing every now and then? Oh, no! That's right—you don't even _look _at me if you can help it!"

It was about this time that things really started to take a turn for the worst.

"Hold on... Wait, Trevor, just... Just calm down," Anderson sputtered, raising his hands defensively as my friend rose menacingly from his seat. This Anderson really was a small fellow, indeed; Trevor was only a few inches shorter than me, and still held at least four or five on this chap.

"Don't tell _me _to calm down! You know, I really couldn't give a damn when you spontaneously up and decide that treating my things with such thoughtlessness is perfectly fine, but how dare you barge in here at quarter to one in the morning and insult my friends!"

"This is my room too, Trevor! Now get this drunkard out of here before I report you both!"

"Before I report you both," Trevor taunted him mercilessly, moving not towards Anderson himself, but to the other end of the table.

"Of course. You go ahead and do that, Anderson. This is how much I care."

And with that, Trevor roughly grabbed hold of one of the weightier volumes in the disordered pile on the floor and promptly hurled it out the open window.

"What are you doing!?"

"Were you not watching me? Here, I'll do it again."

"_No_! Trevor, don't you dare—_let go of me_!"

True to his warning, Trevor seized yet another book and disposed of it in a similar manner. Meanwhile, this Anderson fellow and I were engaged in some kind of bizarre, spiraling minuet. When he realized that Trevor was going for yet another one of his precious books, he made nothing less than a mad dash for him, but his attempt was thwarted when I proceeded to grab the back of his shirt. He was twisting and turning about in every which way to try and throw me off, (I had him hooked by the collar with _two fingers_, for heaven's sake!), but instead of struggling against him, I kept moving right on with him. And it was driving him _mad_.

"You dumb bastard, get _off_!"

Of course, in my tipsiness, it never occurred to me that this fellow was in fact insinuating that _I_ was a 'dumb bastard,'as he had put it, for I was far too busy thinking of how much he reminded me of one of those music boxes with figurines that spun like clockwork whenever they played. Only _this _was a swearing, flailing music box that would be liable to kill me when it stopped spinning, so I held on tight and continued to match his jerking movements.

After only about a minute or two, however, even this became simply too much for me to keep up with. Against my will, I began to slow down and grow very, very dizzy. I finally had to stop when my sight began to blur. Anderson took this opportunity to deliver me a surprisingly forceful shove which sent me sprawling—_face _first—into the wall.

And then, there was blackness.

* * *

I moaned. There was something cold and hard on my head—_crushing _my head. One hand flew up to my forehead in an attempt to push whatever the thing was off of me, but it landed on nothing but skin. My eyes flew open.

I was no longer on the floor, but on the bed opposite of Trevor's. The desk had been returned to its proper place against the wall, the chair behind it. On top of the desk in a neat stack were five books; from what I could see, the topmost two appeared to be in a positively ruined state. Those must have been the two (or _among _the two) that Trevor let fly last night. But Trevor himself was nowhere to be found.

"Ow!"

I shielded my eyes with both hands. Why was it so deucedly bright in there? The weight was back, crushing my skull as I lay there trying to sort out my thoughts. It was no good trying to completely organize them, however, for between the lingering effects of the alcohol and the migraine, I had gone completely scatterbrained.

_There was a young tease from Mount Chesser who'd smile as men would assess her. So flirtatious was she, she'd invite them to tea, and then not allow one to undress her._

_What? Where did _that _come from?_

The obscene rhyme rang in my head several more times as I desperately tried to recall the events of of the previous evening. There was gin, I remembered that much, but what had gone on?

_Ohh, Trevor, you never met my father! Now _he _wore these big metal-rimmed glasses, thick as windowpanes! Blind as a bat without them!_

I ceased breathing when I finally came to the horrifying realization that the voice slurring its way through the latter statement was none other than my own.

_No. Impossible._

But indeed it was. I had said it myself and of my own free will.

The doorknob turned and clicked. I only recited a silent prayer that it was Trevor and not his horrid roommate.

"You're finally up, Holmes?" he asked me as soon as he saw that I was awake, albeit devoid of his normal good humor.

"Victor? Your roommate...?"

"It's been settled," he cut me off, turning to face me for the first time. I saw that he had the beginnings of what was probably going to develop into a very painful black eye.

"What's going to happen to us?" I asked, my heart rate doubling itself.

"Nothing."

_What?_

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. Anderson never reported us. Probably too afraid to after what you did to him... And me, of course. But it's been agreed that I will cover the cost of the two books I destroyed, in addition to giving my solemn word that this shall _never _happen again."

"And I left you to face the consequences alone," I said, although I will admit I never _quite _forgave him for giving me the stuff in the first place, or at least for doing absolutely nothing to stop both of us before we became hopelessly intoxicated.

Although knowing what I drunkenly revealed to him last night was more than enough to deter me from even touching a glass of beer for years to come.

"No. No, you didn't. This is my fault, Holmes, all of it. Don't you feel responsible for any of it."

"Mostly, yes, but since you at no point actually forced the stuff into me, the fact remains that I, as well, am also to blame for last evening's fiasco which could have easily gotten us both expelled."

"It's a horrifying thought," he mused, taking a seat on his own bed, "so much wasted for the sake of a drink."

I nodded my agreement and we sat in silence for several minutes.

_Ohh, Victor, you never met my father! Now _he _wore these big metal-rimmed glasses, thick as windowpanes! Blind as a bat without them!_

_If you were going to say something about your own father, you could have at least made it a bit more flattering than that!_

"But I will say that it was quite gratifying to watch you make Anderson tie himself up in a knot," Trevor gave me a weary smirk.

"And you were right, Victor. I should not want to fall afoul of you when you're in ill-humor."

At this, he flushed and averted his eyes for a moment.

"Well, that was months and months of bottled-up tension finally releasing itself in an explosion."

"And you've known me for how long now...? Four months? How do I know that I don't have some unconscious little mannerism that is driving you just _beserk_?"

"Oh, come on, Holmsey—"

"Come on, now, Victor, what is it? Is it the way I walk? The brand of cigarettes I smoke? Is my necktie crooked?"

"Will you shut up!" he fairly yelled, bursting out into a fit of relieved laughter.

"At any rate, you'll find out when you wake up one day with a pitchfork through your stomach."

"A pitchfork, Victor? That was remarkably gruesome to come up with on a dime. Just _what _else have you got in that suitcase?"

**END CHAPTER 1 AND A BOTTLE OF GIN**

* * *

* "Some Old Horse Caught A Horse Taking Oats Away." Nifty little mnemonic for _sine = opposite/hypotenuse, cosine = adjacent/hypotenuse, tangent = opposite/adjacent._

_* _In Victorian England, alcohol content was measured in units of "proof spirit." To convert alcohol by volume (ABV) to "proof spirit," simply multiply by 1.75. So the gin mentioned in the story is 47% ABV, or around 95 proof, as most people will be familiar with. Lots of math in this story, huh?

*ASSUMING that Holmes is around 6"4 and 180 pounds, having drunk 11.9 ounces of gin (a British jigger is 1.7 ounces) over the course of two hours, his BAC would be approximately 0.19. The DMV classifies this as "Definite Impairment." I think they're right.

* Unrelated, I came thisclose to entitling this chapter "Two Guys, One Bottle," but changed it virtually last second, having reconsidered whether the joke would go over well with most sane members of the fandom. **REVIEWS** are always appreciated!


	2. Call Me Slim

Call Me Slim

Alright, this one is a little fluffy. And very short. In fact, you might even consider it to be pure fluff. I mean, I like fluff as much as I do most fanfiction, but that's just my opinion, I guess. Both are a pretty pathetic lunch.

"_The name of a man is a numbing blow from which he never recovers." - Marshall McLuhan_

_

* * *

  
_

What a cruel, ill-bequeathed thing is a name.

A name is a title. A designation. A label. A name is a way for people to say "hey, you" in a language that only you can understand.

While most people would agree that it is not outrageous in the least for me, specifically, to bring up this argument, that abomination scribbled on my birth certificate is not the sole source of my complaint. (Though I'm sure I speak for all the Sherlocks and Jeremiahs and Archibalds in the world, among far too many others.)

A name is something bestowed upon us at birth. _Birth_. Do we not grow? Do we not change? Do we not learn?

I do not mean to suggest that I am against the use of names in the first place, for what could result from that but utter chaos? But names should be things that _adapt _to us—that suit us and change with us—but instead they are discordant burdens that are outgrown like a pair of socks.

Take the Native American Salish tribe, for example. In their tradition, a name is given to an infant that expresses a certain quality which the parents hope their child will come to have. This given name is kept only until adolescence, when a ritual takes place during which the tribal leader bestows a new name upon the child which, again, recognizes some characteristic or gift for which the child is known. Others may digress, but were I to undergo this ceremony, I should much prefer to use the latter as my criteria for choosing a title. Personally, I find _Ezhno_, which translates into "solitary" in our language, to be much more flattering than _Waquini_, or "hook nose."

But I ramble far above and beyond that which I meant to touch upon. Nonetheless, it was a topic that had most annoyingly been buzzing around my mind like an angry mosquito in the weeks following my first encounter with Victor Trevor, especially on this particular day when I found myself shambling off to class far too early for the sole purpose of having nothing else to do. As for Trevor, I had very readily slipped into the practice of simply calling him Victor. What a mistake _that_ was! Not that I am (or _was_) so cold and distant as to regret forming this personable habit, but indeed, I admit I began to think twice after he took the initiative to follow my trend and return the favor.

Honestly, every time _anybody_ uses that God-awful name of mine, whether it be a doctor, a client, or even (God help me) my brother, it's like receiving a pinprick: quick and harmless, but somewhat painful and never failing to evoke a cringe. Of course, one gets accustomed to pinpricks when one is subjected to them nearly every day, (and no, I do not mean _that_ kind of pinprick), but they never cease to remind how I could have been James or David or Robert, which, as bland as they are, do _not_ turn heads whenever their bearers are addressed in public.

"Wait up, Sherlock. Do you expect me to run halfway across campus to catch up with you?"

I winced. Trevor was only a few strides in back of me yet, but that was _loud_.

"Well, I'm sorry if I don't have eyes in the back of my head, Victor."

"Are you going to Anatomy now?"

"Yes."

"Me, too."

"What? I thought you switched out of Anatomy last week?"

"I did. I mean, the diagrams in the textbook alone are disgusting, but it just got to be too much when they actually started hacking things apart."

"It is not 'hacking things apart,' it's called 'dissection,' and... Hold on a moment. If you hate Anatomy so much, then why the deuce did you transfer back in?"

"I couldn't stay awake during Physics. Even if Anatomy is morbidly revolting, at the very least, it is quite difficult not to pay attention during class. Besides, if I do faint, then I have an excuse to fall asleep. And the student consultant will be furious, of course, if he sees me in his office once more this week."

"You must have led a very sheltered life before striking off on your own, Victor," I could not help but snicker.

"I don't know about your family, Sherlock, but my parents didn't _need_ to tell me to keep away from dead things as a child."

I broke my gaze as the smirk vanished.

_I can't take this anymore._

"Something wrong?" a somewhat concerned Victor Trevor turned to me.

_He'll probably take this the wrong way. I suppose it would be wise to exercise a bit of tact, for once._

"Call me Holmes."

He fell silent, blinking several times.

"Oh."

_Tactful, indeed._

I glanced sidelong to gauge his reaction as he turned away from me. His face, in fact, seemed to be devoid of any expression at all, as set and stolid as chiseled stone. Finally, I half-heartedly deemed it fit to break the silence.

"It's nothing to take personally, Victor, really."

"I-I just thought that... Well, since you—"

"I started it, Victor, I know. But to be perfectly fair, your name is _not_ 'Sherlock.'"

Trevor's head whipped in my direction, his lips parting silently.

"Oh!"

At last, his eyes lit with understanding, and he shook his head as a relieved laugh escaped him.

"Stupid me. But it's not such a bad name, really."

"Speak for yourself."

"Oh, come on Sh—Holmes, you're the one always complaining to me about how 'commonplace,' as you put it, the world and everything in it seems to be. I should say I certainly don't know of any other men by that name."

"There's a reason for that."

"Well, I think it suits you," he declared with a satisfied nod.

"You evidently don't know its meaning," I sighed.

"Can't say that I do. What is it?"

I braced myself for the inevitable ridicule that was to follow my explanation. And surely enough, I was correct in my assumption that Trevor was just the type to openly burst out into laughter when I informed him that "Sherlock" means "blonde-haired."

"Oh, God, you're serious, aren't you? And here I've been tormenting you for almost three weeks."

"Quite serious, unfortunately, and yes."

"Was somebody colorblind?"

"I'm beside myself with laughter, Victor."

"I'm sorry. So, I take it back; it doesn't suit you at all. But that doesn't mean you should be ashamed of it."

"Well _you_ have a normal name!"

"You mean a _boring_ name," Trevor shook his head.

"I mean, think about it: Victor. Trevor. Or, even worse: _Mister_ Victor Trevor. It's practically the apotheosis of redundancy."

I could not resist smiling at that, for it was true, insofar as assonances go. It cannot help but call to mind, however, how differently _Victor Armitage_ would have sounded, for that, technically, was his real name. Neither of us were aware of it at the time, obviously, but...

"Oh, God. It reeks of formaldehyde in here."

"You are so paranoid. It does not."

"It does _so_!"

I took a purposeful whiff of the place, searching for any trace of the chemical. Oddly enough, Trevor had been right. The room _did _smell of formaldehyde.

"You're right."

"What did I tell you? Paranoid, indeed."

"Well, it does not _reek _of it as you described."

"It's stronger over here."

I stepped over to where Trevor was standing, very close to the professor's desk. The musky, persisting odor was emanating from one particular spot. Not coincidentally, there on the floor was a somewhat large area of moist, stained wood. Trevor's eyes bulged.

"You don't suppose..."

"I wouldn't be surprised in the least," I confirmed his unspoken question. Indeed, poor Professor Hope had probably lost one of his specimens via some sort of accident or other that resulted in its jar crash-landing on the floor.

"Oh, God," Trevor repeated for the second time.

"Will you please relax? Any and every trace of the jar's former occupant has been quite removed as you can see."

"What time is it?"

"A quarter to nine," I answered, withdrawing my pocket watch.

"And when does this class start?"

"Nine fifteen."

"Oh, God! Why did you drag me in here so early?"

"I certainly did _not_ drag you in here! _You_ followed me!"

"Well, why do you bother coming so early? No one's even here!"

"So?"

"I...need some air. Now. This class starts at nine fifteen, you said?"

"Yes."

"Then that's when I'll be back," he said curtly, departing from the room rather hastily and without another word, which was eerily contrary to his customary polite and refined manner.

And I could do nothing but stand there bewildered and wonder what had disturbed him so, for he clearly did not desire my company.

_Well, _that_ certainly was a strange performance, whatever it was._

_

* * *

_

"That is all, gentlemen."

I was yanked rather abruptly out of my fixed, engaged reverie as the professor concluded his lecture. Snapping my textbook shut, I looked to my right over at Trevor.

Or, rather, where he _should_ have been sitting. Baffled, I scanned the room just in time to catch sight of the back of his head disappearing _rapidly_ out the door.

I sighed, contempt beginning to mingle with my concern. Honestly, I could see where any weak-stomached man would have a difficult time with that class, but being uncomfortable and throwing every shred of one's composure to the wind were two entirely separate matters altogether. So, rolling my eyes as I stood, I grabbed the book and set off to trace my borderline-hysterical friend's movements. After making my path through a crowded hallway and watching him dodge fellow students (along with disapproving glances), I finally found him outside.

"Victor."

I received no response or even acknowledgment. In fact, I think he advanced his pace even more once he realized I was behind him.

"Victor!"

This time, he so conveniently chose the perfect moment to stop dead in his tracks altogether, such that I collided right into him. That was the final straw.

"I've about had it with your theatrics, you know," I found myself hissing into his ear. He mumbled something and turned to me, and for the first time I realized that his face was as pale as death.

"What?"

"Chunger," he said, (or, that's what it _sounded_ like.)

"...Huh?"

"I have to—"

With that, he broke off, ran to the closest bush, and promptly lost his breakfast as I looked on, mortified and lost between trying to be of assistance and walking in the other direction.

Two of our classmates (among others) happened to notice, as well, and they stopped when they saw my current predicament.

"I take it your friend doesn't appreciate the finer points of the structure of the cerebral cortex?" one of them quipped.

"No, and _I_ don't appreciate gawkers."

I don't know whether or not they left, for I finally turned to Trevor, who was now down to heavy breathing and had a handkerchief pressed over his mouth. Tentatively, I approached him and placed a hand on his quivering shoulder.

"Are you alright, Victor?"

"Leave me alone."

As long as I live, I shall never forget this response or my reaction to it. It left me completely shell-shocked for several moments, after which he made yet another abrupt exit without so much as looking at me. This time, I did not pursue.

* * *

I laid down my pen and closed the journal when I heard the tapping on my door. Of course I already knew who it was, but what was he doing here at half-past eleven?

I opened the door to find that not only had Trevor's color failed to improve any, but dark rings now hung under his eyes, which, in all probability, spoke of nightmares. However, he managed to conjure up a smile.

"Hi."

"Um... Hello. Do... Are you feeling any better?"

"Considerably, yes," he nodded, and I stepped aside and motioned for them to enter. As he passed me, I noted that he was not empty-handed; in his arms were two books, the bottom one being significantly weightier than the first.

"What're those?" I asked as he took a seat on the vacant bed adjacent to my chair. He tapped the cover of the first volume and opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn't make it out of his mouth.

"Wait," he said, directing his gaze at me once more.

"I'm sorry for the way I acted today."

"Don't apologize. You did nothing to me. But what ever upset you so?"

"Well," he began, shifting uncomfortably, "you would probably be surprised to learn that I'm not all that squeamish. No, really!" he hastened to reassure me when I gave a doubtful smirk.

"Alright. Continue."

"Truly, I don't fear blood or gore. It's just that... It's the idea that that brain once _belonged_ to some poor chap, and now it's sitting on some teacher's desk in a jar of God-knows-what for everyone to stare at. It just seems so wrong."

"Well, that brain _did_ once belong to some poor chap, there's no denying it, but you must remember that he had no use for it by the time it was taken from him."

At that, Trevor only shuttered and fell silent.

"There's more to it than that, isn't there?"

"Well... I didn't really plan on... That is, I don't—"

"Please, you needn't tell me anything about it if you don't wish to."

His eyes were haunted as they locked with mine, but he nodded gratefully.

"The books?" I changed the subject. (Even I can be tactful when I want to.)

"Ah, yes! Well, this one," he tapped the cover once more, "I have absolutely no idea what it is."

He tossed said book to the side, clearly satisfied at having successfully roused my curiosity as I looked on.

"For I only borrowed it, you see, so no one would see me walking around with this one," he continued, holding the second volume upright for me to see, but its front cover still facing him.

"Which would be...?"

He flashed me an all-out Cheshire grin as he flipped the volume around.

"A compiled list of the worst names in the English language."

"What! Don't couples who are, um... _expecting_ buy these things?"

"Yes."

"Well, I can see why you took out the second book, but you do realize that _no one_ is out walking around at this hour, anyway?"

"Now, now," Trevor admonished me with a wagging finger, "one must be discreet about these things, Holmes. Can't have people going around thinking you're pregnant, now, can we?"

"**Victor!**"

In a rush of heat, I felt my face tinge a hundred shades of scarlet.

_Another defect of the aristocracy: they say whatever they please whenever it pleases them._

"I was going to recommend that you switch back out of Anatomy, but on second thought, it appears as though there are several key points regarding the male body which you have yet to learn," I retorted, reluctantly allowing a snicker to escape after biting and releasing my lower lip.

"Gender distortions aside, I _have_ decided to remain in Anatomy."

"You _what_! Why?"

"To hopefully drown that... 'paranoia' of mine, as you called it."

"Well... Noble though your intentions may be, do you really think _school_ is the right place to do it?"

"Why not? I've practically been handed the opportunity on a silver platter. I might not have it again."

"Yes, but could you keep your _grade_ up high enough? I saw you, you know, sitting there as white as a sheet today. I don't doubt your intelligence, dear fellow, but how are you possibly going to manage?"

"I just _will_. There's nothing more to it. You must realize, Holmes, that there is nothing you can possibly say which I have not thought of already. I'm into survival and all that," he joked, playfully punching me on the arm as I sat once more.

"It's your choice, at any rate," I shrugged dismissively as he flicked open the cover to the first page.

"Well?"

"Let's see. Ah... Abbot."

"Mmh."

"Abelard... _Agamemnon_! Who in their right mind names their child 'Agamemnon?'"

"Someone who has taken a fancy to mythology which borders on obsessive, I should imagine."

"What else...? Algernon."

"Ugh!"

"Angus."

"_Always_ hated that one."

"_Ashley_? Why the deuce is that listed under boys' names?"

"No, no, I have met men by that name."

"Eugh. I would _never_ do that to my child. Let's go onto 'B's. Balthasar."

"Horrible."

"Bardolph... Barnabus, Baruch, Beuchamp."

"Also horrible."

"Bonaventure."

"Sounds like a character from one of those brainless shipwreck novels or something."

"Boniface."

"What? Is that even a name?"

"Apparently so. Oh, God, here's one: _Brick_."

"'Brick?' As in, the material this building is made from?"

"The definition reads 'from the bridge,' so I suppose one can only assume..."

He trailed off as we both broke down into mirth.

"It looks like that one's English in origin, too. I'd like to think we aren't such a sadistic bunch as _that_."

* * *

"_Nimrod_! I did not even know that was a name!"

"Perhaps it would be best if no one else did, either."

"Obedience."

"A bit domineering, that one."

"Ogden, Orrick, Orsen, Oswald... There are just too many to count," Trevor said, checking his watch. Up until that point, I had no idea that the hour was going on one o'clock.

"But I hope you realize now that it could have been a lot worse than 'Sherlock.'"

"Yes, yes, you've made your point, Victor. Is that the sole reason you came here to-night?"

"Aside from banishing the lingering visions of that brain-in-a-jar? Yes."

"I take it you've read Miss Shelly's _Frankenstein_?"

"I have. But if _you _did, you would know that the doctor's creature was not, as many believe it to have been, constructed from dead body parts."

"Really?"

"Indeed. He only tells us that even he found restoring life to dead components to be impossible, and he was forced to create the monster much larger than a normal man because of how difficult the smaller parts of the human body would have been to construct."

"Fantastic claptrap," I snickered, silently cursing the woman for her paranoid butchering of the scientific method.

"What the devil did he make it out of, then?"

"Who knows? Papier-mâché and string, perhaps?"

"I don't see why not. Makes perfect sense."

"Never had a name, either, that thing."

"He should be grateful."

_So, perhaps an embarrassing name will not be my ruination. I should just have to _make _it fashionable by my own merit, shouldn't I?_

* * *

**A/N: Know an awful name? Please share.**

Oh, and P.S. : If your name is Archibald, Jeremiah, Abbot, Abelard, Agamemnon, Algernon, Angus, Balthasar, Bardolph, Barnabus, Baruch, Beauchamp, Brick, Nimrod, Obedience, Ogden, Orrick, Orsen, or Oswald... Sorry. If not, then stop complaining.

Another P.S. : Every time you don't review, a kitten bursts into flames. So please, think of the kittens.

Are my endings awful, or what?


End file.
